


Familiar

by MimiLaRue



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: I just want Mickey Milkovich to be happy ok? Don't we all?, M/M, Magical Realism, Prison and tattoos but suspend that disbelief with a crane y'all because I know nothing about either, angst then fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 19:13:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5638633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MimiLaRue/pseuds/MimiLaRue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey gets out of prison, narrowly escapes getting caught in a thunderstorm, perhaps experiences something magical, gets some ink, makes a friend, gets the upper hand back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Familiar

**Author's Note:**

> Based very loosely on 6x01. I think we can all agree that Mickey could use a little upper hand, no? 
> 
> Also, I'm tagging this as "magical realism," but it's sort of magical realism-adjacent?
> 
> Lastly, [Querulous Gawks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Querulousgawks/works) is a gift - both as a writer and as a beta. As the latter, she's just the right combination of cheerleader and English teacher, and I hope for all fic writers to have a person like her to kindly wave pompoms for them and suggest clarifying clause placement.

Mickey stepped out of the prison lobby and squinted at the sky. It was bright for now, but giant thunderheads sat on the horizon. He breathed deep. There was a yard in the prison, of course, but it almost seemed like a different sky outside those walls. The sky was bigger out here. More air. 

He waited at the curb for twenty minutes for the public bus and felt the prison hanging over his shoulder the whole time. Got on the bus. Got off the bus, got on the L. Got off the L, walked eight blocks. Mickey spent the trip home trying not to think of the time he got out of juvie and Ian and Mandy came to get him.

With an eye towards those purple-black clouds steadily creeping south towards the neighborhood, Mickey stopped at a market on the way home and spent most of the remainder of his inmate account on beer, ramen, and frozen food. The food would have to last a while, since, shit - no money, no job, no prospects. _No nothing,_ Mickey thought, dragging a hand over his face. _No family, no friends, no nothing._ Rubbing his hand hard over a spot in the center of his chest (one of the ugly-ass reminders of all that nothing), he trudged up the stairs to his house and unlocked the front door. The door creaked and swung open like a haunted house, and he reeled with how long he’d been gone.

Mickey walked in and turned on some lights - but somehow being inside made him feel more exposed, flayed open. He grabbed one of the beers and headed straight back out to the front porch. The thunder clouds sat directly overhead now, looming over the South Side like fortress walls, and Mickey smiled. If the sky was going to open up and pour out, at least he'd made it home in time and had a beer in hand to watch it. 

Within minutes - before he’d even finished his cigarette - fat drops were hitting the porch floor in front of him. Mickey scooched in a few inches further under the overhang, but the drops were hitting so hard, the splash-up was getting him too. He lit another cigarette and crossed his arms tightly against the sudden chill in the air. _Gonna be nasty tonight. Wouldn’t want to be stuck out here._

Nearly as soon as he’d had the thought, he heard -- _something._

He sat stock still and listened. 

There. There it was again.

With a no-look cigarette-flick off to the side yard, Mickey hopped out into the battering rain. He shielded his eyes against the force of the drops and crouched around the base of the porch to examine the busted trellis that made up its side. Going purely on feel, he stuck his hand through a broken board and hoped very hard that he was about to pick up what he thought he was about to pick up. 

As gently as he could, he slid his hand in -- and found softness. Warmth. Mickey nudged his hand under it, cupped the ball of fur, and drew it out.

In his hand, not even taking up the entire palm, sat a scrawny, shivering kitten. Mud and rain water ran off black fur, tiny whiskers shivered, and giant yellow eyes stared back at him. 

“Well, fuck.”

“Mew.”

***

Inside, he dried her off (her? her.) as best he could, dragged a mostly broken umbrella out of the hall closet, and set out to get some kitten food. He didn’t know what the hell he was going to do with her, but the pound didn’t open til the morning, and he was not fucking dealing with a dead kitten on his first day out of prison.

Mickey looked down at the barriers he’d created from a pizza box, some shoes, and an old notebook of Mandy’s. _Kitten prison,_ he thought. The tiny black cat, somehow even skinnier-looking now that she was dry, stared up at him and didn't blink. 

“Stay. Stay you hear me? You better be right her when I got back. I don’t want to find piss and shit all over the place.”

“Mew.”

Those yellow eyes were fucking killer though. This thing was like Puss in Boots. Those eyes just begged you for everything. 

Nope. Fuck that shit. He wasn’t taking care of a cat. He’d gotten out of a relationship, his wife and kid wanted nothing to do with him, Mandy was gone, he was pretty sure Iggy was gone. Place was all his. Not dealing with a cat. 

“Mew.” 

Mickey stared at it for a second. “Fuuuuuck,” he groaned at the ceiling, louder than the rain outside. He thought for a minute, then stalked into his room. Deep back in the closet, he searched around til he grabbed the hoodie he wanted. He tugged it on and slipped his jacket over it. Back in the living room, he leaned over Kitten Prison and glared at the cat. “Alright, let’s go.”

He slipped the kitten into the front pocket of the hoodie, and she settled in like it was a hammock. Mickey figured she fell asleep nearly right away.

*** 

_Oh hey, what a fun fucking trip down memory lane my first night out._

The Kash and Grab. It was the closest shop to him -- it was still coming down in fucking sheets and he wasn’t about to hoof it the three extra blocks to go to the Kroger. Plus, he vaguely remembered stocking cat food. He pulled open the door and headed in. _Just hope I don’t run into…_

“Mickey Milkovich. In my store. What are the odds?” 

He turned around. “Hey, Linda.” 

“So are you here to rob me, scare other people so they don’t rob me, or both?”

“Nah,” Mickey said, grabbing five cans off cat food off the shelf. “Just getting some stuff.” He mentally calculated how much he had on him, then turned and grabbed another six pack from the back cooler. _Jesus, that fucking back cooler._

He moved quickly to pay, but the front counter wasn’t much better. He could practically see freckled, ropey forearms leaning over a math book right _there._

“How much?” he asked, even though Linda wasn’t finished ringing him up. 

Linda stopped her cash register button-punching and looked at him. 

“You want a job?”

“What?”

“You heard me,” she said, going back to button-punching. “Shoplifting’s been up. It was down when you were doing your menacing junkyard dog thing a few years ago, maybe it’ll do the same again.”

Mickey stalled out for a second trying to think of how to say it. Finally it just came out on its own. “I have a record now.”

“I'm shocked,” she chuckled. “Be here tomorrow at nine.” She picked up the last can and frowned at it. “You have a cat?”

*** 

He settled the kitten on the floor in front of a dumped-out can of food and grinned as she fucking devoured it. He made himself a bowl of ramen and gave her another half can of food. With the rain skittering on the roof and he and the kitten tucking in, it was almost…cozy. 

After, he took the kitten out to the front and held the umbrella over her while he waited for her to paw at the dirt. The clothesline he’d tied around her chest (he’d been terrified of accidentally choking her) dangled in the mud. The rain wasn’t pounding like before, but it still fell steadily, and he didn’t want to think about her getting away _or_ her going to the bathroom in his house. He knew it was stupid and the cat was stupid and this entire situation was stupid. But Mickey still stood there and waited for it. 

He came in and gently wiped off her thumbprint-sized paws with a wet washcloth. When he set her down to brush his teeth, she just tucked her tail under and watched him. “You’re a fucking creepster, you know that?”

When he was done and the house was locked up, he contemplated what to do with her while he slept. In the end, he picked her up and headed to bed. If he closed the door, at least he’d hear her if she got into something in just his room.

But at the threshold to his bedroom, he stopped. Even with only the light from the streetlamp wavering from the rain, he could see it all at once, like he was a camera. The rumpled sheets, the blinds they used to argue over keeping up or down, the dresser top where they used to put their keys and change. It was too easy to see Ian superimposed over all of it. Even the pile of dirty clothes still sat in the corner of the room. _Bet there’s an old t-shirt or sock of his in there._ For half a second, Mickey wanted to dig through the pile until he found it. 

Instead he turned and headed for the couch. 

He lay back on the couch and wondered again what to do with the kitten now that the entire first floor was open to her roaming. In the end, he just put her on his chest and hoped for the best. 

“Mew.”

Mickey opened one eye. “Fucking A. Outside again? Really, Queen of Sheba?” 

But the kitten just walked up closer to his face, so close Mickey’s eyes nearly crossed. He could barely see her stick out her tongue and rasp it against his chin. And then again. And again - til Mickey’s lower face had gotten a thorough cleaning and his skin stung a little. Then the kitten gently marched into the crook of his neck, curled into a ball, and passed out. 

“Well, fuck,” he whispered in the dark room. 

***

Mickey passed by it most days -- “Black Cat Tattoo.” Next to a particularly seedy-looking bar that he had been meaning to try. On his way to the Kash & Grab, on his way from the Kash & Grab. Three months of Black Cat Tattoo. Early one day -- so early he doubted they were even open yet -- he tried the door. When it actually swung open, he hovered for an unsure moment. 

“Shit man, don’t let the cold in.”

Looking through the open doorway to a back room lined with reclining lab chairs, he saw a pale girl with pale hair and a shit-ton of black eye makeup. She looked like what Mickey imagined that Luna Lovegood chick from those Harry Potter books he’d picked up in the joint. If Luna Lovegood was in a emo-punk band. 

“Can I help you? Sweet knuckle tats, bee-tee-dubs. Poke and stick?”

“Yeah, when I was 13.”

“Jesus,” she said, eyes darting up to his. “You must have been one scary-ass 13-year-old.” She leaned back and looked at Mickey, like she was taking his measure in the friendliest possible way. “You need a fix-it.” She said it as an indisputable fact. 

Mickey looked around and almost laughed. “What? How did-- No.”

“It’s okay. We all have regrets - even those annoying fuckers who are always like, ‘Live with no regrets!’ I hate those people. That’s fucking impossible.” She clicked her tongue. “I’ve had a few fix-its myself. Even tattoo artists make bad life choices. You wouldn’t think.” 

Now Mickey did laugh. “Yeah, alright.” He looked around. “Can you look at it now?”

She looked around the empty storefront. “Dude, it’s like 8:30 a.m., we’re not even officially open yet. There’s not even anyone else here yet-- _Oh._ Yeah, alright, come on back.”

Mickey settled into the red fake leather tattoo chair as punk-Luna said, “I’m Em, by the way.”

“Mickey.”

“So Mickey, is it on your dick?”

“What? No. What the fuck?” And then when he realized she wasn't accusing him of anything, he added, “Do people really do that shit?”

“You would be surprised, my friend,” she said as she picked up his hands and looked closely at his knuckles. “So if it's not on your dick, then why come in when no one’s here? Oh shit, it’s on your balls, isn’t it? I'm not gonna lie, your fix-it is going to _hurt_.”

“Jesus, who are these freaks getting their balls tattooed? No! No.” Mickey pulled up his shirt and pointed just above his heart. “This. I need this gone.” 

Em flicked her eyes up to Mickey’s and then back down to the tattoo, back in easy professional mode. “I can do that. Poke and stick here too, huh?” She pulled the skin tight and stared at the crooked cursive. “You thought about what you want here? I mean, you gotta cover it with something. I’m not Dr. Laser.” 

“I dunno, I think just a black bar. I don’t want to forget it was there, I just don’t want to see it everyday.” 

Em pressed her lips together. “Brother, do I get that.” She spun on her stool to the equipment behind her. “Well, take off your shirt, and let’s get started.”

“Whoa, no, no. I just wanted to see how much it would cost. I probably need a few more weeks to get the cash together. Plus, you’re not even open.”

“On the house. And I own the place, so I say we’re open. Take off your shirt, Mickey, and let’s do this.”

***

“So, Mickey, you have any pets?”

“Really? We’re making small talk?” Mickey didn’t know why, but he felt easier around Em than he had felt around anyone in a long time. Giving her shit came very naturally.

“Dude, we got about an hour to kill, and I'm basically making a black rectangle. It’s super boring. Work with me.” 

“No, I don’t have a pet.” He pauses. “Well, this kitten lives with me, but she’s not my pet.” 

“Do you feed her?”

“Yeah.”

“Then she’s your pet. How’d you come to live with her?”

“She lives with _me_.” But Mickey told her about the rainy night and the tiny, bony black tuft of fur that fit in his palm, and Em said, “Oh, she’s your familiar,” like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Mickey just looked at her. 

“I take it you're not _familiar_ with the term. Get it?” At Mickey’s deadpan head shake, she shrugged. “It's like an animal companion, but for witches and other magical people. They protect their humans, especially while they're just getting their powers. Or getting their feet back under them, or whatever.” She frowned down at the growing black bar in Mickey's skin and wiped at a drop of blood particularly hard. 

“Ow, Jesus,” Mickey hissed. “Yeah well, in case you hadn't noticed, not a witch over here.”

“Eh, I'm playing fast and loose with the term maybe. I mean, my knowledge comes from this Wiccan chick I dated when I was 19, so it's not like I'm an authority or anything. It's just what your story reminded me of.” Em paused and scratched her nose with her forearm. “She got a name?”

Mickey took a second to answer, still processing the idea of the kitten being his protector. “I mean, I call her Queen of Sheba or just Sheba, sometimes, but I don't--”

“So her name is Sheba. You are a cat owner, and your cat’s name is Sheba.” 

_Well, fuck._ When she put it that way. He certainly wasn’t going to tell her about the catflap he’d installed in his back door. Had to borrow an electrical saw from Linda and everything. The term _pussy whipped_ floated into his head, and he chuckled. _Shit._

Later, as Em finished up, a black guy with short dreads walked in and dropped a backpack down behind the counter. “What's up, Em?” He barely glanced at Mickey. 

“Hey Francis.” Em nodded at her coworker, but to Mickey she murmured, “Don’t worry, he’s cool.”

“Cool with what?” Mickey thought maybe she meant he dealt (which wouldn’t be a bad thing, he realized, since Ig had taken off to parts unknown).

Em looked up at him -- those wide, pale eyes rimmed in an inch of black smudge -- like he was an utter dumbass. “The fact that you have a dude’s name on here. I assumed that’s why you wanted to do this when no one was here? Wouldn’t blame you. I’m guessing not all South Side tattoo parlors are waving a rainbow flag out front.” 

“Fuck no. I got this shit done in prison - you think I care about a few ink jockeys judging me for having a guy’s name on my chest? No. Shit’s embarrassing,” he muttered. “That I got it done in the first place. Such a sap move. Dumb.”

Em laughed, deep and husky as she wiped away the last of the blood and ink off his chest. “Right on, Mickey. Well, you’re done anyway. One solid black bar right over your heart.” Tilted her head and appraised it. “Kind of badass in a nihilistic way, actually.” 

Mickey looked down. One solid black bar, right over his heart. No other way to describe it. Mickey could still feel the name under it (misspelled, goddammit), but now he felt like he had some protection against it. 

“So.” Em busied herself with taping on the bandage and handing him a xeroxed set of care instructions. He wasn’t about to fight her on paying - free was free - but he felt weird about just rolling out. She’d been pretty cool after all. 

Em interrupted his mental debate. “You ever thought about getting some color work done? Shit would be vibrant.” 

“Yeah?”

“Seriously, your skin is like computer paper.” 

“What would I get?”

She shrugged. “Something badass obviously, something that means something to you, that marked a point in your life.” Em smiled slowly, but it took over her whole face. “Maybe…? What do you think of that? We could do more color in the background.” She pointed to a framed poster on the back wall. _Black Cat Fireworks._ “It hung in my room when I was little. My parents said it would keep the monsters away.” Mickey could believe that. The giant black cat face bared its teeth in a savage snarl. Sheba ( _Jesus, I have a cat named Sheba_ ) never looked like that -- but Mickey did. Or at least he felt like it, a lot of the time. 

“Yeah. Yeah maybe.” 

“Well you know where to come if you ever want it done. Stay cool, Mickey.” 

“Yeah, you too, Em.”

***

That night on the couch, Mickey made sure to pick up the kitten and place her directly in the crook of his neck - hoping to circumvent her jumping right up on his new ink. The new tattoo was right where she usually sat for his nightly bath, but she’d have to deal. She licked his earlobe instead, sniffing and snuffling in his ear, making him giggle and goosebumps break out on his arm. He waited for her to make her couple of small turns, knead her sharp little claws into his skin (he hissed, even though he braced himself every freaking time), and tuck into her little cat ball. 

“Night, Sheba.”

Tiny kitten snores soothed him to sleep.

***

Mickey brought guys home. If Sheba hissed at them, he kicked them out right after. If she didn’t, he’d let them stay. They used Mandy’s old room.

***

With a wave over his shoulder to Linda, Mickey pushed out the door of the Kash & Grab, hitching up the backpack full of cat food. He’d run low last time, and Sheba had made it very clear that that was _not_ going to fly again. 

He passed the entrance to Black Cat Tattoo and pulled open the beat-up door next to it. The light was always dim in the back of the bar, but he spotted Em’s white-blonde hair like a lighthouse in the shadows. Reaching their usual booth, he slid in across from her.

“You keeping it clean?” She peered at him over her beer. 

“Yes. Fuck, mom, I can use soap and water.”

“That’s my fucking art, Milkovich, I don’t need you messing it up with your laziness.”

A year since he’d gotten the black bar, ten months since he’d gotten the firework cat on the inside of his forearm, six since he’d gotten a bloom of black and red roses on his other forearm, and two days since his latest, a skeleton mermaid in blues and greens that he'd gotten for no reason other than it reminded him of Mandy. He and Em started meeting at the bar after tat number two, and somehow it had become a regular thing right away. 

He’d listened to her cry (but not really - Em didn’t cry, she just got drunk and quiet) over her on-again-off-again ex Samantha. Em had heard about Ian - most of it, not everything because he was not some goddamn feelings superhero who could just relive all that shit. She’d badgered him into finally sleeping in his bed (“Reclaim that shit, Mickey! Don’t let him have that power over you!”) and even come over to help him clean out the room and burn some shit that smelled like weed but that she swore was not weed and wave it all over his room. She’d done the roses after that. (“Renewal. Rebirth. Your own personal Spring, Mickey. Revel in that shit. Honor it.”) Whatever. But he’d told Samantha off when they ran into her at the bar and she was giving Em shit. So yeah, he guessed they were friends. 

***

Mickey looked under the bed again, and in the bathtub since she sometimes slept in it, the weirdo. What cat sleeps in a bathtub? He checked on their porch for the fourth time, but this time grabbed an old flashlight whose last set of new batteries had probably been in the 90s. Its feeble beam did nothing to cut through the sheets of rain. “Fuck!” 

It was another crazy rainstorm, just like the night he found her, but this time Mickey was frantic. Sheba hadn’t been home since the night before. When he called Em an hour ago, she’d had him send her a pic of Sheba and promised to make some flyers at the shop. 

(“You had her microchipped right?” 

“Of course I had her microchipped!” 

“And she was wearing her collar?” 

“She always fucking wears her collar, Jesus Em, you know that. Are you helping or are you asking stupid questions?” 

“Then someone will find her. It'll be ok. We'll get her back.”)

Mickey barely slept that night for the nightmares. 

All through the cold, bright morning, Em and Mickey posted LOST CAT signs on still-dripping telephone poles and trees. When they ran out of flyers, Mickey headed back home alone and made coffee, staring at his phone the entire time. The house felt ten degrees colder than it had the day before. 

Finally, around 10 am, he got a text: _“Hey, saw your flyer. I think I have your cat. Showed up on my doorstep in the middle of the rainstorm.”_

 _“Holy shit. Thank you. I can come now. Address?”_

When he mapped it, the dot on the map was nearly a mile away ( _what the fuck, Sheba?_ ). Mickey nearly ran the whole way to the rowhouse and had to pause to catch his breath before he knocked. He hoped cats could understand cursing, because Sheba was going to get an earful.

Then the door swung open, and Ian Gallagher stood in the doorway holding his cat.

“MIckey? What are you doing here? Are you out? How'd you know where to find me?” His eyes were only curious, not accusing. 

Mickey had to clear his throat a few times before it started working. “You, uh, you got my cat there, Gallagher.”

“I have your cat?” He looked down at a purring Sheba (Mickey could hear her from the stoop). “This is your cat? You have a cat?”

“Yeah. That’s Sheba. Can I… can I have her? Should probably get her home.” Like she had a fucking appointment or something. Like it was not completely obvious that this was the most awkward moment in the history of the fucking world.

“Yeah. Yeah. Of course… but you should come in for coffee. Right? It’s early, I just made a pot.” 

Mickey was already reaching out for his cat, but Ian had turned away and was heading back inside with her. “Come on, and close the door, it’s cold out,” Ian called back. 

“Yeah fine, but can I please have my cat. I just-- Can I have her?”

Ian finally turned, placed her gently in Mickey’s arms and smiled. Mickey nuzzled Sheba’s soft belly fur and murmured so only she could hear, “You are in such big trouble, you stupid fucking furball.”

“Mew.”

Mickey chuckled and felt like he could breathe again. When he looked up, Ian was smirking softly at him. “So when the hell did you get a cat?”

Mickey looked around Ian's apartment for a second before he answered. Sunny, bright. Fairly neat. Small - the bed, bathroom and couch were all within spitting distance of where they stood at the kitchen counter. A row of clear orange pill bottles sat on the window sill and caught the light like stained glass. 

“She showed up on my doorstep about a year ago. The night I got out of prison.” Mickey let that sentence hang in the air around them and considered which was weirder - acknowledging that he'd been in prison for trying to revenge-kill Ian's half-sister/cousin/whatever or that his new pet was his magical protector. In the end he just took another sip of coffee. _Some shit is too weird to bring up._

They stood with their mugs and watched Sheba attack the cap of a milk carton. (“She found it last night and is obsessed,” Ian said.) In fits and starts, they shared information. Ian was taking classes at the community college and had nearly finished his EMT training. Mickey told him about working at the Kash & Grab again, and Ian nearly fell off the couch laughing. (“Shut up, Chuckles.” Mickey said, but there wasn’t much heat in the words.) He told Ian about how Linda had hired him full-time, and how she had recently started calling him Mr. Manager -- even though he was pretty sure that was just her own stupid joke. Ian asked about the tats on Mickey’s arms, didn’t ask about the one under his shirt. 

Finally, in a comfortable silence -- but one underlaid by the fact that Mickey was aware of how long he’d been there -- Ian asked it. “So,” he said, flicking the milk cap to Sheba again, “you seeing anyone?” 

“Sometimes.” Might as well tell the truth, plus (and he could hear Em, protective angel on his shoulder, saying _fuck that guy_ ) he didn’t owe Ian Gallagher anything. “You?”

Ian looked at the couch. “Sometimes.” 

The moment he said it, Sheba dropped the milk cap and jumped into Mickey’s lap. 

“Well, I still gotta walk back with the furball, so. Thanks for the coffee. See you around, Gallagher.”

“Yeah. See ya around.”

As Mickey walked down the steps to the rowhouse with the black cat in his arms, Ian called out to him. “Mick?”

“Yeah?” Mickey turned around. Ian had his hands stuffed far down into his pockets, and his ears were flushed bright pink. 

“It’s weird don’t you think, that your cat, that Sheba showed up here, not at all near her house, in the middle of a rainstorm?”

Mickey shrugged. He thought it was superfucking weird as a matter of fact but didn’t want to give Ian the satisfaction. “Cats do weird shit.”

“Yeah, I guess. Still though… I feel like it’s… fuck you’re going to give me so much shit about this… I feel like it’s fate or something. Right?”

“What are you trying to say, Gallagher?” Ian was blushing so hard it looked painful now. 

“I have your new number, you know, from the flyers. And now you have mine from the text. Maybe we should talk some more sometime? Grab a drink or something?” Mickey was a second from outright laughing at this ridiculous display of awkwardness. “So what do you say? Can I call you?”

Mickey bit his lip. “Nah,” he said, and Ian's face fell. “But maybe I'll call you sometime.”

Ian beamed, and it was like the sun suddenly shone on his face. “Right. Well, that'd be cool. Hopefully soon.”

“Yeah, maybe. Later, Gallagher,” Mickey said, and he turned and walked away before his smile showed through. 

As soon as they were around the corner, Mickey held Sheba up to his face and burrowed his face in her fur. “You think you’re real fucking funny, don’t you?” She nudged her head up under his chin. “Yeah, yeah, you did good. He looks good.” He dropped a kiss on Sheba’s head. “But I can handle my own shit from now on, yeah?” 

“Mew.”

“Oh, mew yourself,” he said and kissed her again. 

Mickey couldn’t wait to call Em and tell her about all this shit. When she met Ian, she was going to put him through the ringer, and Mickey couldn’t fucking wait. Maybe it was even time for another tattoo. Something with dark, purple-gray rain clouds and the sun breaking through. 

He kicked at a puddle and bundled his cat closer as they walked home together.

**Author's Note:**

> [Hi! [waves]](http://mimilaroo.tumblr.com/)


End file.
